I have Asian Games withdrawal syndrome.
I don’t know if that’s an actual condition, but I seem to experience it every time a major multi-sport event comes to an end. The Olympics, the Commonwealth Games and now the Asian Games. There is always this strange, inexplicable emptiness that follows as though something has quietly been taken away from my otherwise ordinary days.
For weeks, there is always something happening. A match to follow, a result to check, a medal to hope for. You find yourself switching between sports, following competitions you might not ordinarily watch and becoming emotionally invested in people who have absolutely no idea you exist.
And then one day, it’s over.
The Asian Games 2026 gave me plenty of reasons to be happy. Indian hockey was one of them. The women’s relay team was another. There was the golf gold, the soft tennis triumph and the sheer satisfaction of watching the Indian archery team take on the mighty Koreans and come out on top.
Each victory brought a different kind of happiness. Some were exciting because of the achievement itself; others because of the opponent, the circumstances, or the sheer improbability of the result. There is something particularly satisfying about watching an underdog challenge a team that has dominated a sport for years and actually win.
Then there was badminton.
I don’t know why I willingly put myself through the experience of watching close badminton matches. The sport has given me more than enough reasons to question my own sanity. Lakshya Sen’s comeback against Japan was one of those moments when you know you should probably calm down, but instead find yourself holding your breath, watching every point and silently bargaining with the universe.
And when it finally goes your way, the relief is almost ridiculous. You weren’t the one on court. You weren’t the one fighting for every point. Yet you feel as though you’ve just completed an exhausting task yourself.
India’s badminton bronze was wonderful but the moments leading up to it were what made the experience memorable.
And of course, there was TJ. His decathlon bronze that made me just a little happier than I can explain.
Some athletes simply occupy a different space in your sporting affections. You might admire another athlete’s achievement and be genuinely happy for them, but with your favourite, there is an additional layer of emotional investment. You follow their progress a little more closely, hope things work out a little more fervently and feel that familiar nervousness when they compete.
It is probably not a particularly rational arrangement. But rationality has very little to do with being a sports fan.
What I find interesting is how these events introduce us to people we might otherwise never have paid attention to. For a few weeks, an athlete’s name becomes familiar. We learn about their sport, remember their previous performances, follow their progress, and begin rooting for them. Sometimes, we discover a new favourite. Sometimes, we witness an achievement that stays with us long after the competition is over.
We see only a fraction of their lives. A few minutes of competition, a medal ceremony, an interview, perhaps a glimpse of their disappointment or joy. We don’t see the years of training, the setbacks, the sacrifices, or the ordinary days that made that moment possible.
For them, a medal might represent years of work. For us, it might be an evening spent in front of a screen, putting everything else on hold until the final result comes in.
And yet, somehow, their happiness becomes ours.
Perhaps that is one of the lovely things about sport. We get to witness someone else’s dream coming true and even though we played no part in making it happen, we get to share in a little of the joy. We celebrate with people we’ve never met, feel disappointed for people who don’t know our names and occasionally allow the result of a sporting event to determine whether we have a good day.
There is something wonderfully absurd about it.
Which brings me back to the withdrawal syndrome.
When the Games end, I don’t think I miss only the sport. There isn’t something to look forward to. The anticipation of a close match, the possibility of an unexpected victory, and the small bursts of happiness when something goes right are missed. I miss discovering athletes and stories that might otherwise have passed me by.
I even miss the nervousness, although I would never willingly admit that while a match is in progress.
Life, of course, carries on. There are responsibilities, routines, and plenty of things that require our attention. The empty space left behind by a sporting event is hardly a tragedy. In the grand scheme of things, it is a very small problem to have.
But perhaps that is precisely why I find it interesting.
For a few weeks, something outside my everyday life gave me a reason to feel excited, hopeful, frustrated, proud, and occasionally irrational. It connected me to people I had never met and to moments I had no control over. And now that it has ended, I am left with a quiet reminder of how much happiness can come from simply watching someone else do something extraordinary.
Until the next tournament, I suppose I’ll have to return to normal life.
Though, knowing me, I’ll probably start counting down to the next one long before this feeling disappears.